


Subbing for Al's

by imwiththeunicorn (tiatodd)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiatodd/pseuds/imwiththeunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>7 of 12 Christmas oneshots completed in 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subbing for Al's

It was a very chilly last class of the new day of the second semester of school. You were ready to kill whichever dumbass teacher was in charge of this class for leaving you all locked out until the bell; not only because you were freezing, but because Callie was talking your ear off. “And I was like, no, mom, I told you I don’t smoke weed anymore. And like she didn’t believe me ‘cause she’s such a stupid bitch, and I _told_ her she didn’t have to come home because I was like ‘Mom, I’m not smoking weed.’ But like so then, me and my friends were at my house just doing hella pot and then my mom all hella walks in and she just like stares at me and I’m like wow you’re so stupid. Like I told her I wasn’t but she didn’t believe me. She’s such a fucking psycho.”  
_Going. To. Kill. Someone,_ you thought, fingers nearly frozen to the straps on your backpack as you idly drummed your head against the brick wall. What the hell kind of dumbass teacher leaves the room locked until the bell?  
You needed _some_ sort of entertainment. Then you remembered something exciting from yesterday, almost dropping your phone as you pulled it out of your pocket. “Callie! I got a new ringtone yesterday. It’s that one song, here listen…” It was your favorite song, which you had shown her last weekend, and as of yesterday it was your ring and text tone. You hadn’t bothered putting it on silent all day, because you kind of wanted it to go off in at least one class so everyone could hear it. Callie didn’t seem quite so interested, however, and continued her complaints about life.  
Finally the bell rang, and you had an excuse to not listen to Callie’s incessant rambling. You headed straight for the back row, not even looking at the teacher as he locked the door open for the flood of freezing students.  
“Get your own seat, bitch,” said a kid in a red hoodie, sagging his white skinny jeans as he shoved you aside with is backpack.  
“Hey, asshole, I was here first.” You grabbed him by the backpack and threw him at the desk next to you, taking a seat in the corner desk, as had been your intention. He glared and you sneered.  
“Actually,” a mature voice nearly shouted over the buzz of students as a well-dressed, young, blond man who was clearly your new teacher stood with his arms folded before the whiteboard. “I have a seating chart for y’all.”  
“Oh my god, did he really just say ‘y’all’?” you scoffed, raising an eyebrow and exchanging a look with your classmates.  
“And I think I want you two up here,” he drawled pensively, pointing at the two front, corner seats. Oh he had to be kidding.  
Well, according to the seriousness in his expression, apparently he wasn’t. You dubiously took your seat, which wasn’t all that bad; it was closest to the door. It would be harder to hide your phone while texting, but you guessed you could try…  
It made you vengefully happy to see that Hoodie’s desk was three feet away from the teacher’s. There’s no way he would be able to get away with _anything._  
“Your name?” asked this complete asshole of a teacher, pencil poised over a hardcopy of the seating chart. You mumbled your name and he penciled it in, with the expressions of “judging you.” He asked the other kid the same, and then took his position in front of the class, arms folded as he regarded the students in a way that suggested he thought himself above all of you. What a dick.  
Everyone was still talking of course, some boys in the back two rows launching pen caps and paperclips from rubber band slingshots. You tried to hold a conversation with this girl adjacent from you, but you couldn’t stop glancing at the teacher, just standing there waiting for everyone to be quiet. He wasn’t losing his cool, he wasn’t repeating “BE QUIET,” he was just standing there, and it was so curious. It almost made you _want_ to stop talking and pay attention.  
But you wouldn’t let him play that mind trick on you, oh no. You were going to talk about the party you and Lizzie went to last night and how fucked up she got.  
“I did _not_ make out with Anya!”  
“Yes, you did, Lizzie. It’s all up on FaceBook and shit. You were hella fucked up, it was literally like not even funny. I couldn’t stop laughing.”  
She looked about to say something, mouth opened and eyes fixed to protest, but then she looked at the front of the classroom and immediately sat straight and attentive. You glanced up to see the teacher still in the same position; arms folded and a slight smirk on his pretty pink lips, steely blue eyes profiling every student in the room. He still hadn’t said a word.  
Soon, half the room was quiet. You realized you were, too. Damn him. You turned to talk to the kid behind you, breaking him out of his trance. “So what classes do you have?” you asked, really just passively rebelling and not actually listening to his answers.  
The entire room was silent. Only you and the kid were talking now.  
_CRRRACK!_  
“AAH!” you shrieked at the loud slap of wood on wood, jumping in your seat and facing forward. The teacher was right in front of your desk, yardstick in his hand.  
“Now that I have your attention,” he said, addressing the class with his eyes fixed on you as he receded back to the whiteboard. “I am Mr. Jackson, no you may not call me Mr. J, Mr. Jack, or anything other than Mr. Jackson. For those of you who aren’t aware, I am not your official teacher for this semester, but Mr. Jones is away for a couple of weeks. I know it’s weird to start off a class with a sub, but as far as I’m concerned, that shouldn’t matter and you will obey me as you would Mr. Jones.  
“I don’t know how Mr. Jones runs his class, and likely neither do any of y’all, but while he is gone this is my classroom and we’re gonna do things _my_ way. Is that understood?”  
You suppressed the urge to say “yes, sir,” but two others in the classroom didn’t, earning a low giggle from the rest of the class. Mr. Jackson simpered smugly, the look of power-hunger in his eyes almost causing you to shiver.  
Scratch “almost.” And you _knew_ he noticed.  
“I’m going to pass each of you a syllabus, and I expect you to read silently along as I read it out loud. I don’t tolerate daydreamers or—“ The yardstick came down on a sleeping student’s desk, the sound shocking the poor boy so much he almost tipped backward in the desk. “Slumberers.”  
Yes. Sir. Wait, what? No, he was a dick, you were gonna rebel against this!…by reading silently along as he read the syllabus aloud.  
You actually followed along through all three pages. But you really only paid attention to the cellphone section of it. It sort of bothered you.  
“Cellphones. If I see your phone out, if I even hear it go off in your backpack, it is mine for three days. I don’t want to hear excuses. Your friends should all be in class, your parents all know you’re in class, and if it’s a real emergency then _that_ phone will ring.” He pointed to the white one hanging on the wall. “No, it is not your mother who is constantly texting you in class. And don’t try to be sly about it, either. If you’re foolin’ around with your hand in your crotch for any reason, I know it has nothin’ to do with my class. To my knowledge, you do not need a calculator in history, either. So don’t try and pull that excuse.”  
Well. He had officially exhausted any excuse you could have come up with, so reluctantly, you tucked your phone safely away in the small pocket of your backpack, folding your arms with a huff. He glanced at you and smirked.  
“Alright, well,” said Mr. Jackson in finality, tossing his copy of the syllabus on his desk and combing a hand quickly through his hair to keep it out of his face, “That’s enough rules for now. Time ta put ya to work.”  
A collective groan broke the students’ silence.  
“Oh, stop, it’s just a video,” he said, taking a stack of papers from his desk and counting out enough for the first row. “And you’re gonna take some notes.”  
“On the first day?” someone whined incredulously.  
“Calm down, it’s not for a grade,” the teacher sneered. “Just assessing your listening skills.”  
And of course, he was so very prepared, the projector already up and running fine so he could start the video right away. You couldn’t stand prepared teachers. Attentive teachers. Authoritative teachers. Teachers like that got in the way of you getting to do what you wanted.  
About ten minutes into the video, you were bored to death, doodling on the side of your notepaper. You had actually been so bored you’d bothered to fill in questions. It was obscene. You were doing what he _wanted._ What kind of witchcraft was this?  
Your eyes kept drifting the room to find him. That’s another thing you already didn’t like about this teacher; he didn’t stay in his desk scrolling through Tumblr or reading a book. He was keeping a very close eye on all the students, by walking up and back down through the aisles. Thank God he was only a sub. For two weeks. You hated to admit it, but he could possibly turn you into a mindless, obedient student drone in that time. Ugh.  
He was walking up your aisle now. You fixed your eyes on the video, clutching the pencil tightly in your hand. You could hear his footsteps at the desk behind you.  
And then suddenly your heart dropped down to your stomach and you nearly leapt in your seat, because the sound of your favorite song blasted from your backpack. _Damn it._ You fumbled with jittery fingers through your backpack, heart pounding sickeningly as you turned off your phone.  
“Wow,” said Mr. Jackson, his voice bitterly amused as he held out his hand expectantly. You looked up at him in disbelief, trying to think of some excuse. He couldn’t really take it away on the first day, could he? He had to grant some mercy… “First day.” He flexed his fingers.  
Anger and embarrassment battled with each other in your chest, boiling up into your eyes as you begrudgingly placed the phone in his hand. “But it’s—“  
“Rules are rules.”  
Students snickered quietly as he walked off—no, sauntered, he fucking sauntered because he’s a smug-ass son of a bitch—back to his desk, opened a drawer and put your phone inside it. You watched him lean forward with his hands on top of the desk as he scanned the room, pushing up his glasses with his middle and index fingers. His eyes lingered on you as he sat back in his chair, leaned against the white board with his arms folded, and watched the lot of you.  
You half-assed the notes for the rest of the video, feeling embarrassed and exposed and inexplicably thrilled. What scared you was that last feeling. I mean, you had to admit he was hot, at least kinda, with his thick, blond hair combed neatly away from his face, and his cool blue eyes that—oh my gosh. He just took away _your cellphone_ and you were checking him out.  
The bell rang and the lights came on and you looked down at your desk, passing up your paper without baring an eye to the teacher.  
You had to bargain with him, you realized. You had just given your number to this really cute guy at the party last night, and tomorrow the two-day rule would be up. What if he texted or called tomorrow while your phone was locked in Mr. Jackson’s desk?  
This was not good.  
The rest of the classroom filed out, and you pretended to have trouble with your backpack’s zipper, stalling for time while you gathered the courage.  
His voice startled you. “Well, did you want to talk to me or what?”  
“H-huh?” You flushed as soon as you looked up at his smug face, his arms folded.  
“I mean, if you want to keep fiddling with your zipper, that’s fine, but get outa my classroom.”  
“M-Mr. Jackson, I need my phone.”  
“Well then ya should’a turned it off during class,” he said simply, straightening a desk. “If you’re done wasting my time…”  
“Mr. Jackson, please,” you whined, standing up to face him. He didn’t budge, expression deadpan. “I-I-I…please, I have to get my phone back, my…my mom is going out of town and I need to take care of—“  
“I’m pretty good at telling when people are lying to me,” he said simply.  
Damn.  
You really wanted your phone back, though. He couldn’t win this…he couldn’t.  
You had to offer him something.  
“Look. I _need_ my phone back. I’ll take any other punishment, just _please_ …” Ooh where did your breath go.  
One of his eyebrows quirked upward, and his weight shifted to one hip. “Oh. Any punishment?”  
You felt all the blood in your body rush to your cheeks. And your… “Well…”  
He turned his back to you, walking up to the whiteboard. “You say you _need_ your phone, right?” He slowly fingered the yardstick resting in the marker tray. “Are you one hundred percent okay with your proposition.”  
Oh my. “Yes.” Your voice cracked so you cleared your throat, standing your ground beside your desk. “Yes.”  
He turned around, holding the edge of the yardstick between his fingers loosely enough to swing, like a pendulum, as he leaned a hip against his desk. “Come over here.”  
“Ichangedmymind,” you squeaked, taking up your backpack.  
“No, no, you already said you were sure.” He tapped the yardstick on the linoleum, calling you forward with a finger. “C’mon, it’ll be quick. It has to be; I’ve got work to do. And then you may have your phone.”  
Your backpack flopped to the floor as you took your place by his desk, vision blurring as you looked at the yardstick. “W-what, um. What exactly are you going to do?”  
He slapped his hand on his desk. “Turn around and bend over.”  
“WHAT?”  
“Cellphone.”  
Your teeth chattered. Slowly, haltingly, you turned to face his desk, bracing your hands on top and bending over it. Well…it couldn’t be that bad, could it? You still had your jeans o—“HEY!” And now they were around your knees. Once again, you felt very, very exposed, and closed your legs tight together. “Was that necessary?”  
“Spread them.”  
_Oh gosh._ You obeyed, clenching your teeth, a high whine escaping your throat. “Hurry up…”  
“Not quite, I need to know you understand your punishment.”  
“What’s there to understand? You’re gonna whack me across the ass with that thing! Isn’t that illeg—nnh…” He pressed the yardstick flat against your ass.  
“Doooon’t talk back to me,” he crooned. “Do you understand what you did?”  
“I didn’t do anythi—“  
“Do you understand what you did?”  
“I-I didn’t turn off my cellphone, okay?” He had better hurry up or your knees were going to give out.  
“You broke my rules,” he said. “And you disrupted my class. In case you weren’t paying attention, disrupting the class is another thing I explicitly said not to do. And I don’t like when students don’t listen to instruction.”  
“I’m sorry, I—“  
“Don’t do that quite yet. You’ll be plenty sorry after this.”  
It was _way_ too late to back out of this. _WHHHKK!_  
“Nh!” you grunted, eyes wide and teeth clenched as you waited for the initial sting to fade.  
“That one,” he explained, “was for not paying attention to my rules.”  
You heard the rush of wind as he drew the yardstick back again. It came down hard on your ass, every nerve ending hot with pain as again you struggled not to cry out. You could feel the throbbing under your skin. It was so uncomfortable and embarrassing. Your cheeks burned and tears prickled up in your eyes. _Hurry up,_ you pleaded silently.  
“And that one was for _disobeying_ my rules.”  
This time he brought it down at just below the last strike, harder than the first two times. As the stiff ruler connected with your backside this time, you heard the wood crack, jolting forward into the desk as your knees buckled. “GAH!”  
“That was for disrupting my class. Pull ‘em up,” he said, nonchalant but with a slight pant. You fully collapsed onto his desk, lying with your head buried in one arm as you lamely pulled your jeans up over your hot, throbbing ass. It stung and it tingled and it was so uncomfortable and it just _hurt._  
You heard a small clunk beside your ear and turned your head, snatching up the phone Mr. Jackson had just set down. “Next time, I think I’ll just leave the phone,” you groaned hoarsely, forcing yourself up off the desk.  
Mr. Jackson sucked air through his teeth. “Ooh, bad choice. I’d say next time, you should just turn off the phone before you come into my class.”  
“Yessir,” you muttered, shoving your phone into your front pocket and picking up your backpack.  
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.  
“Uh-huh.”  
\--  
You didn’t know why you hid your phone from your friends, you just kinda did. You didn’t want to explain why Mr. Jackson had given it back, you supposed.  
“Great, off to Mr. Tight-ass’s class,” Callie mumbled as the bell rang. Your next period was history. With Mr. Jackson. You’d been dreading this moment all day.  
Callie continued to complain on and on about her boyfriend’s mom all the way to your class, as she had done last period. The sickening rapidity of your heart rate distracted you from her complaints, of course, so it wasn’t really that bad.  
Yet again, the door was locked until the bell, which gave your heart, brain, and stomach ample time to stew over what it would be like to see him again after yesterday. Would he be remorseful? Would he not look at you? Or would he think you’d bend to his every whim? Would he try to humiliate you in front of the whole class? This was too much to take.  
_Biiiiiing._ Your heart thrummed as the door opened, and you ducked your head as you entered. Like a coward. The only glimpse you saw of him was the hem of his khakis and his dark shoes on the dirty classroom floor. You expected to hear a low chuckle under his breath, but he didn’t even seem to acknowledge you, which somehow made the moment worse.  
Everyone filed silently into their seats, only a few hushed discussions taking place in the classroom. Oh, if only these silly students knew what they really had to fear. You sat down gingerly, as you had all day, because your ass was almost unbearably sore. You had nearly cried during P.E.  
You chanced looking up at Mr. Jackson, who, thankfully, didn’t even look at you. He watched the class carefully for a moment, leaning back on his desk with one ankle tucked behind the other. All he had to do was clear his throat and the last murmurs of the students fell to naught.  
“Good, I don’t have to shout over you to take role,” he said simply. “You’ll need a pencil and some paper, and after I’m done with role you can go get a book from the class set in the shelves up here. If I have to repeat instruction, it will not go over well, so listen once and you don’t have to ask me later. You will read through the first three chapters and take Cornell notes—“  
The students interrupted with a groan.  
“And make sure you take them well and write down any questions you have, so that you are prepared for my lecture tomorrow.”  
Another groan, this time more breathy and full of the thuds of headdesking. Mr. Jackson scoffed. “Oh God forbid you have to do actual class work in class.”  
He called role and you fiddled in your backpack for a pen. Well, pencil was good enough, you supposed, even if it only had about a centimeter of graphite left. Paper…paper…paper…It took a good 5 seconds of shuffling through your backpack to realize you hadn’t any binder paper. Pencil. No paper. You could ask the teacher. The teacher. Mr. Jackson.  
He called your name, and you blushed. “Huh?”  
He looked up at you from the computer with an eyebrow raised and a small smirk. “Here.”  
Oh. So he’d only been calling role. I mean, of course, hadn’t he just said that? Oh man. You took a deep breath and held it for a moment, the feeling returning to your fingers. You hadn’t even been aware it’d left them.  
Paper. Right. Teacher. Ask. You’d ask as soon as he was done with role.  
His posture was a bit entrancing. You weren’t sure why; it was quite ordinary, him supporting his weight on one leg while the other knee bent, causing his hips to slant. His back arched slightly as he entered absentees into the computer, purple striped tie dangling over the spacebar on his keyboard. A speck of light glinted on the left peak of his upper lip. What was that? Likely not glitter, or lipgloss. Possibly lip balm, though his lips didn’t look moisturized. Rather on the dry side, actually. Then his tongue darted out, sliding swiftly over his top and then bottom lip. Something squirmed in your lower stomach. That was probably it, you figured, his lips were just wet from his tongue. You had a brief vision of that same tongue getting _your_ lips wet. And quickly you pushed aside the fantasy before you started drooling.  
The reflection of the screen in his thin-framed glasses obscured his eyes, but you could still catch a fragment of the silvery blue of his irises. You recalled the way they had stared you down yesterday. How they had commanded you. During the brief flashback, your eyes had become distracted by his blond hair, and you followed the locks back behind his ear, and down his neck, to the crisp white collar of his shirt. The lines led you down to the collar’s point, and you were following his tie again, down to the keyboard, down to his hands. Every finger had its own domain of keys, prepared to handle the whole keyboard at once, if necessary. They were long and dexterous, and could easily wrap around your neck if Mr. Jackson willed it. You stayed fixated on the bump of his knuckles for a moment and then looked at the whole of his hands, how strong they looked. The backs of his hands were a touch veiny, and looked large in comparison to the tight fit of the shirt cuffs around his wrists.  
He shifted his weight from left leg to right leg, hips dipping down toward the class rather than the white board. You almost whimpered aloud at the sight of that shapely ass, hugged loosely in those khaki pants. You wondered what it would be like to get your revenge on him, to see _his_ butt all naked and red at your hand. And now you were beginning to imagine more of him naked, and you blushed at the realization, suddenly aware that he was just finishing calling out the names. His voice tuned back in hazily and your eyes went out of focus as you listened, spacing. Of course, you didn’t actually have to listen, you had to get a book. No, you had to get paper. Paper. Teacher. _Ass._  
“I find your ogling a bit rude,” he murmured. Snap, when did he get to your desk? And why was he so close to y—  
“Ogling?” you scoffed indignantly, blush betraying you.  
He acted like it hadn’t been said. “Now tell me,” he said, lowering his voice. “Why are you not obeying my instruction?”  
“Yuh…” Focus, he asked you a question. Question. Instruction. Disobeying. Yardstick…“I…I got my pencil,” you offered articulately, holding it up as proof with your eyes locked into his. You felt like you could melt. Well, actually, a certain part of you sort of _was_ melting.  
He chuckled condescendingly. “Yes, very good job. Gold star. But I asked you to get paper and a book, also.” He nodded his head toward the rest of the class. A glance at the paper of the kid next to you said he hadn’t just started. How long had you been ogling? Not ogling. Staring. No, staring is creepy. Observing.  
Paper. Yes. “I need…paper…”  
His eyes stayed on you, the look on his face somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “Would you like me to get you some?” he patronized.  
“I…” You nodded, ducking your head.  
The desk creaked as he leaned away and when he turned you let off a silent sigh. Then your body kind of did its own thing and your head tipped back and you shuddered, quickly recovering because damn, that would be _embarrassing_ for him to turn back around to see.  
Fortunately, that didn’t happen, and when he did return he came bearing a book and binder paper.  
When he finally left again and headed to the back of the class, you could finally slow your heart enough to start working. And the minute you put your pencil down to write your name, Jimmy poked your arm with his pencil. You turned around with an acidic “What?”  
“You’re hot for teacher, aren’t you.”  
“What? Ew, nasty, that’s ridiculous,” you spat, blushing despite yourself. “Fuck off, I’m trying to work.”  
“Please, you don’t do classwork.”  
“I do when I don’t want to get my phone taken away or worse,” you explained, trying to get back to work. “Now can it.”  
“I totally saw you checkin’ him out.”  
“Quit it.”  
“You were staring _right_ at his ass.”  
You tensed up, fingers tightening around your pencil. “I was not, shut up.”  
You thought he was done pestering you, and it was a safe time to crack open your book. You leafed through the pages and began to read, actually read, and take notes. The room was filled with the metallic scratch of graphite on paper, broken by the occasional murmur from one student to another about page numbers or where-did-you-find-the-answer-to-number-ten.  
And then you heard a faint little creak behind you, the light changing the tiniest bit, and Jimmy whispered from six inches away from you, “You want Mr. Jackson’s cock, don’t you.”  
You weren’t certain whether it was the truth or the audacity that set you off but you turned right around, grabbed that punk by the front of his shirt, and balled up a fist. “I said shut the hell up!” Bam! Square on the jaw.  
“OW!”  
“Hey!” Oh shit. That was Mr. Jackson. “There is no fightin’ in my classroom!”  
“Sir, she hit me!” Jimmy whined, a sob threatening his throat.  
“And we don’t hit girls,” he added. You really would have laughed if you weren’t scared bloodless right now. He marched purposefully down your aisle, looking right at you as he braced one hand on your desk and the other on Jimmy’s.  
“Mr. Jackson, sir, he provoked me. I—“  
“I don’t wanna hear it,” he said, voice low and calm. No blood left in your face. You felt a little bit sick. “I want to see you after class.”  
Oh no, no, no, no, no…  
“Both of you.”  
You weren’t quite sure how to feel about that. On one hand, it could mean you were actually going to get _talked_ to and not really punished. On the other hand…you had no idea of Mr. Jackson’s boundaries and he seemed pretty damn fond of that yardstick.  
\--  
The rest of the period, you had worked in scared silence. Once in awhile you shot a glare at Jimmy, who looked apologetic and guilty. You knew his parents were going to come down hard on him for even being near what could be construed as violence.  
Served the prick right.  
And now the bell had rung and the last few students left the classroom, and you and Jimmy stood by your desks with your backpacks readied. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt, and Jimmy picked nervously at a pencil eraser, cluttering the floor with the little pink flakes. Mr. Jackson finished putting away the books, and took his sweet time closing the classroom doors.  
“Both of you sit,” he said without looking. “And take off your backpacks, you’re makin’ me nervous.”  
You did as you were told, and watched him take his place on the top of the desk next to you.  
His blue eyes stared you down, intense and judging, with a hint of dark humor hidden in there. “Who wants to tell me what this was about?”  
“He was…” you started, mostly to keep Jimmy from going into any specifics. “He was teasing me about something and I got mad. I told him to stop, though, before I did so it was his last chance…”  
Jimmy stayed quiet.  
“Is that true, Hawkins?”  
The boy only nodded, tense and perspiring. You fiddled with your thumbs. You felt sorry for him, but you knew you shouldn’t because this was all his damn fault anyway.  
“What I’m curious to know is what you were teasing her about. It seems to have provoked a very strong negative reaction. Maybe you need to verbalize it so you can be sure to steer clear of the subject in the future.”  
_Maybe he doesn’t need to._ You bit your lip nervously and looked down, closing your knees and picking at a loose thread in the hem of your jeans. He wasn’t gonna say it, right?  
Jimmy still kept his mouth shut.  
“Come on, tell me. There ain’t a lot worse I can do to ya than what you got.”  
Liar.  
“I…was making fun of her hair, okay?”  
You watched the teacher surreptitiously. Was he gonna buy it? His face looked suspiciously complacent, shoulders oddly relaxed for a person trying to figure out the truth. That meant he wasn’t trying to. He knew what the punch had been about. Fantastic. “Alright. You can go, I’ll let ya off with a warning this time. You, however,” he said as you got up to leave behind Jimmy, “actually threw a punch, and I’m gonna need to have a serious talk with you about that.”  
Your insides churned. “Kay,” you managed to squeak out, sitting back down.  
Mr. Jackson waited until the door closed completely, and then he went over and locked it, locking the other one as well. His footsteps were teasingly slow. Finally he took the yardstick from the marker tray with a soft whisper of wood on metal, and then he tapped it on the ground by his desk, beckoning you forward with a finger.  
Dropping your backpack completely, you half-exhaled and didn’t breathe back in again until you began to grow lightheaded. “Please, just write me up or something, call my parents. I don’t care.”  
“So how’re you feelin’?” he asked simply, as though trying to start small talk. “Any trouble sittin’ down today?”  
You narrowed your eyes, sitting against the side of his desk and crossed your arms. “Yes, actually.”  
“Oh, that’s bad news,” he said. “If you’re still hurtin’ from just _that,_ you’ll be hurtin’ a whole lot worse by this time tomorrow.”  
Oh no. He wasn’t even going to give you an option this time? You flushed, heart speeding up as you lost your poker face. “What are…”  
“So are _you_ gonna tell me what the punch was about?”  
“Wh-what he said.”  
“Oooh.” He hissed, smirking powerfully. “You’re lying.”  
Before you could rebut, he had grabbed you firmly by the shoulder and spun you around, bending you over the desk. Your hands flew out in front of you before your face collided with the surface, and now your jeans were around your ankles and the small wooden stick whacked right across your buttocks.  
“AAH!” you cried, throwing your head back as tears already began to sting your eyes.  
“That one was for lyin’,” he said, drawing the yardstick back again. You watched over your shoulder, shuddering at the sight of his cold, smug expression. Cruel. His lips parted just a little as the ruler came back down on you, the sting forcing another yelp out your throat. “That one was for hitting Hawkins. Not only did you break my rule, but you broke a school rule. That actually calls for another one.”  
“No, no—ANNH!”  
“And this,” he growled as the yardstick clattered to the floor. You watched over your shoulder, frightened as hell because he looked something along the lines of a starving lion. He pressed down on your shoulder, pinning you securely to the desk as his other hand pulled down your panties in a swift motion. Your head fell to the desk top as two very, very conflicting emotions shook hands in your chest. Your legs quivered. “This one is for being a very, very naughty student. A shameless slut with lecherous thoughts of her teacher.”  
You bit down hard on your lip, embarrassed to the point of tears. “I’m not…”  
“S’pose I’ll add another one for you lying again.” His hand came down on your bare ass and you drew a fractured gasp, shivering and stinging. Before you could recover from the shock, he spanked you again with even more force, causing your knees to completely give out. He pressed down harder on your shoulder. “I almost forgot the one for zoning out while I was giving instructions.”  
_SMACK._  
You bit down on your knuckle, dangerously close to breaking down and sobbing right then. Your ass stung and throbbed, and tingled uncomfortably, and when Mr. Jackson let go of you, you simply slumped to the floor and hurriedly pulled your clothes back up.  
Still recovering, you clamped your hands onto the edge of the desk, hanging limply as you rested your head against its cool metal side, shaking.  
He knelt down beside you and leaned against the desk, still a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I think I’ve punished you enough for today. This is now the part where I reward you for positive behavior.”  
“What?” you breathed, looking at him curiously.”  
“Well you did actually do your work,” he whispered. Something in the way he said it sounded incredibly dirty. “And seeing as I’m all out of gold stars…”  
Holy hell what kind of teacher was this. Now he had you by the shoulder, again, pressing down just a little as he slid your shirt down your shoulder. Your heart was going crazy insane at this point because now Mr. Jackson’s face tilted forward and toward you and his lips _his fucking lips_ were on your skin, on your shoulder. You almost melted in a fit of shivers, and he started sucking and now you were actually getting wet. And then he bit, hard. “Aah, I thought you said this was reward…”  
“Hmhm.” He left the mark as quickly as he had made it, standing up and not even offering you a hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure to do the homework for today.”  
“That’s it?”  
“Goodbye, now. I’ve a meeting to get to.”


End file.
